


a stoic mind and a bleeding heart

by dhufflebee



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: "Tuesdays at Sam's", Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempts At Partying, Coping, Feels, Friends Worry About Their Friends, Friendship, Gen, Irony Is A Defence Mechanism, Motorcycles, SHIELD, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5115980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhufflebee/pseuds/dhufflebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>«Excuse me, officer, since when do I need a helmet?»<br/>«Since 1967, actually»<br/>.<br/>People tend to show you they care about you. Everyone has his own way of expressing it, and it’s endearing. However, there are times when they notice something you would rather keep hidden. And you might snap at them, but you are grateful nonetheless.<br/>Steve Rogers knows the feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a stoic mind and a bleeding heart

**Author's Note:**

> This came to my mind after I watched CA:tWS (again). Why and how does Steve still ride his motorcycle without a helmet? Hence, this fic. Way angst-ier than I intended at first.  
> .  
> [Title from “Reminder” by Mumford & Sons]

Good. That fucking blue cube had returned to where it had come from. That damn thing had only brought trouble. During the war, and now. He felt a little bit more calm (content? safe?) knowing that it was under Thor's custody – yet the thought of Loki being in its whereabouts still made his stomach knot uncomfortably.

Loki. Another damned thing come from afar who had only caused problems, and pain. His brain raced through vivid, unsettling flashes – agent Coulson's body; the guilt in Barton's eyes; the wreck that was New York; Stark falling... He shook his head to stop that train of thoughts, which could only lead to a valley of horrible grief. Not that he wasn't going to feel it all (and soon, no doubt), but at that very moment he only wanted to think about the godawful cube, gone. It had been utterly annoying, knowing that it had been fished out of the ocean. Like, immediately. Why the heck had he crashed the plane for, then? Just-- totally pointless... _Don’t you dare be late…_

He snapped out of that. He forced himself to focus on the grey asphalt, and the motorcycle, and the sensation of wind on his face and through his hair. He accelerated. He fixed his eyes on the road, and his head on the few memorable moments of the last days. He replayed the Shawarma round-up again and again in his head; he tried to recollect everyone's expression at Central Park; he searched his gut for the relief he had felt when it had been over...

He was so deep in his thoughts that he noticed the police car behind him only after some time. He pulled to the side of the road, and put the bike to a halt while the cop got off the vehicle. The man approached Steve, a somehow disconcerted expression on his face. «Err-- mister Rogers? I've been following you for a while now, and I recognized you. I'm sorry and a bit taken aback by this whole situation, too, but...»

Steve was looking at the man intently. He appeared to be in his forties, his uniform was a tad untidy, and his stance insecure. The Avenger wondered what this cop could want - say thank you? Complain? He couldn't guess.

«I'm sorry, but I must fine you». The cop stated, straightening his shoulders and picking up a pen from his uniform's pocket.

«What?» Steve was completely baffled. «Why? Did I exceed the speed limit?»

«No. It's because you're riding without a helmet», the policeman said, gesturing towards his head.

«What? You're fining me 'cause I got no helmet?» Steve had to actively stop himself from laughing at the man in front of him. «Excuse me, officer, since when do I need a helmet?»

«Since 1967, actually», he replied, his expression getting sterner.

Steve's heart skipped a beat. What the actual fuck. His brain had somehow failed to process the fact that those weren't the Forties anymore, probably due to the numbing combination of wind, speed, noise, and surging grief. His mind drifted off – he stared into space, answering to the cop mechanically.

* * *

As far as Clint was concerned, prepping for a mission had never been a piece of cake. At all. It could get really messy, especially if a lot of people were involved – like that time –; especially if one of said people had a whole different range of weapons to carry – like his own bow and arrow –; especially if one person on the team was still relatively new to the whole thing – like Steve was –.

Nobody ever had any problems getting accustomed to big ops, nor to Clint being an agent slash assassin slash archer. Kind of. Steve though: oh, boy. Great leader during battle with his star-spangled costume, but two months had been a truly scarce amount of time for him to fully grasp SHIELD’s routine. He still had to be reminded of lots of things, and no part of his prepping for a mission felt natural yet. Not that it bothered Clint or anyone per se, though the whole situation slowed them down for sure. But hey – everyone’d been a rookie, so nobody got around to be mean to Rogers. Teasing him, they constantly would (though, honestly – every one of them was legit intimidated by _him_. And by the shield.)

Every agent was busying himself in the locker room, putting on the uniform or checking the gear or revising the specifics of the mission again. Clint was fastening his boots, and was about to pick up his combat knife when Steve blurted out: «Guys, do you know where I have to go to pay a fine?»

Clint’s head shot up, his eyes landing on him with a questioning look. Steve had been the first one to be ready to go – his stealth uniform was very easy to put on, plus he had no weapons except for the shield on his shoulders (and a knife somewhere, Clint would have bet) –, and he had been standing awkwardly for a while before speaking. The archer would have liked to ask for explanations, but Rumlow preceded him: «A fine? What for? What’d you do?»

«Err-- I drove my motorcycle without a helmet?» Steve scratched his head, embarrassed.

«Oh, my. Dude, the law’s been promulgated, like, 50 years ago!» Rumlow exclaimed, closing his locker and turning to Steve. He was met by the latter’s arched eyebrow and stern expression.

Clint started to snicker at the scene, only to be vehemently interrupted by Natasha, who was sitting next to him. «Ouch!» he said under his breath, stroking his upper right arm and looking indignantly at her. «You risk to jeopardize the whole mission!» She huffed and stood up to check her gear again, a mocking smile on her lips.

Agent Sitwell shook his head in their direction, before turning to Steve. «How come someone managed to fine you? Super intimidating, man!» Clint rolled his eyes; Steve just shrugged.

Natasha furrowed her brows, looking pensive. «I think you can give the fine to Accounting, they’ll get around paying it».

«I don’t think», Clint said, standing up as well, «SHIELD’s supposed to pay your fines if you’re not on service…» Not even if you _are_ , actually. But he avoided saying that.

«Oh, come on», Sitwell affirmed, «he’s Captain America! He’s _always_ on service!»

«I’m really not», Steve replied, dour. Clint was taken aback by the sudden change in his tone, and glanced at Natasha: she looked as concerned as he was.

Rumlow tilted his head and stared at Steve for a few seconds, before offering: «Yeah, well, SHIELD kinda owes you, doesn’t it? Let them pay the fine – it’s the least they can do after they defrosted you and threw you into the world without a handbook». (Ouch. Not really a great choice of phrasing there, Rumlow, dammit. You’re right and all, but…) Steve inhaled sharply, but nodded nonetheless.

«Okay, time to go!» Natasha stated, looking at the clock hanging above the lockers. She shot a meaningful look at Clint, nodding towards Steve before walking out of the door. Sitwell, Rumlow and the other agents followed suit. The archer adjusted the bow on his shoulders, and noticed that the fellow Avenger hadn’t moved, and still looked rather gloomy. (Thanks, Nat. What am I supposed to tell him now? Man, I don’t even know what the real problem is...) Clint reached Steve by the door, and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly; he looked at him in what he hoped was a sympathetic way, trying to convey something like “Come on, pal. We’ve got to get to work, but I’m here if you need me.” He waited, his hand still on the other man’s shoulder, half-smiling; after a little while, Steve mimicked his smile. (Hooray!) Clint hurried out of the room, Captain America behind him.

* * *

Steve had barely swallowed the last bite of his slice of cake, when Natasha put a big box near his arm. She nodded expectantly, while Barton was nervously tapping his fingers on the table. Hill was trying to look calm but failing miserably, as Steve could see her glancing at her wristwatch every other minute.

Yes, they were in a bit of a hurry. Yes, someone had managed to schedule a mission on _July 4th_. Yes, Steve himself wasn’t a fan of birthday parties. And, well, the whole situation had something of ridiculous to it. They had managed to drop by the Avengers Tower for some cake and soda, but they were nervously waiting for the SHIELD helo due in a half hour anyway. The four agents were already wearing their tactical gear, something that Tony had found incredibly amusing, and Bruce somehow discomforting. Pepper, who they had the luck to intercept before she left to attend a business meeting, had wished Steve a happy birthday while looking at them all with a smirk.

Steve didn’t really expect anybody to give him a present (well, they always did, and he was really grateful; still, he found pleasantly surprising that someone cared enough to think about that – at least someone born this side of 1950s). Above all, he hadn’t expected the box Natasha had placed on the table to be so voluminous: Steve wondered what on earth they had found that he would possibly need. The box was wrapped with vaguely hideous brownish paper, and a red christmas-y bow had been plastered on top. Steve’s arm moved towards his gift, but stopped as soon as Natasha half-screamed: «Wait! You need to read the card first!» The card itself was nothing more than a white piece of paper folded in half, but someone had evidently spent a lot of time decorating it. “To: Steve” had been written with a blue sharpie on the front, and then surrounded by childish-looking stickers of houses and bikes and cars, and encircled by little stars (tempera? stamps?). On the inside, another hand had written “Happy whateverth birthday!”, followed by a smiley face. Steve grinned, immediately mimicked by Natasha, Maria and Clint, who were looking intently at him. He recognized all the signatures on the card: the Avengers’; lots of his fellow agents’, including Sitwell, May and Rumlow; even director Nicholas J. Fury’s. Steve tried to picture how his friends had managed to get him to sign it – _Fury_ signing his birthday card… he’d have liked to be present.

Still smiling widely, Steve stood up and unwrapped his present. As soon as he got a look at what was inside, he burst out laughing. Clint, Maria and Natasha glanced at each other and snickered. Bruce looked inquisitively at Tony, who shrugged and said: «No idea».

Steve opened the box and took out the gift (A fucking _helmet_! Black and brand new. He couldn’t believe it), then quipped: «Thanks, guys. It’s great to be subtly reminded of the fines I’ve paid». Tony’s head shot up, and he looked at Steve with an amused expression. Banner was still nursing his slice of cake, listening nonetheless.

«You’re welcome, Captain», Maria answered with a grin, raising her glass of soda towards him as for a toast. «Oh, by the way, Accounting said they stopped paying after the fifth one. Now, you either pay them yourself, or they’ll deduct them from your salary». Steve huffed.

«Wait, wait», Tony exclaimed, drawing the others’ attention to himself. «What does “the fines I’ve paid” mean? And why is _this_ so damn fun?» he asked, gesturing towards the box and the SHIELD agents in front of him.

«It means that Cap here has been riding his bike without a helmet since he’s been defrosted», Clint answered, a hint of mockery in his voice. «Hence: lots of fines, ‘cause it’s kinda illegal». The archer’s remark was met by Steve’s stuck-out tongue.

Bucky would have laughed his ass off at the irony of it all – _Captain_ _America_ breaking the law –, Steve thought. He would have probably worried, too, though… His train of thought was interrupted by Tony, who asked: «But… I though Popsicle here could just flash his smile or flex some biceps to go away with it?» Stark’s expression was a mixture of disbelief, mockery, and amusement; even Bruce laughed, though not as loudly as Natasha, who nearly spilled the coke she was pouring. She had managed to drain half the bottle of coke in under two minutes, and was being teasingly scolded by Maria.

«Ha, ha». Steve said in a sing-song voice, rolling his eyes. «My radiant beauty rarely suffices to avoid being fined, unfortunately», he continued with a sarcastic tone, «not for lack of trying, though».

«Wait. “Rarely”?» Clint cut in. «Does that mean that it has _actually_ worked sometime?»

«Well…» Steve smirked, and Maria shook her head. «I’ve been reprimanded by this old officer, once», he said, rubbing his chin; Tony arched an eyebrow and mouthed “old”, and Bruce snickered. «He was really kind, actually. He said he could understand why I wasn’t wearing a helmet, ‘cause his father, too, kept forgetting to put it on in the late Sixties…»

«In that case, it was actually your _incredibly old age_ that saved you», Natasha pointed out, grinning. «Just sayin’».

Steve scoffed. (He didn’t mention the other time he managed to go unpunished, because he still thought about it from time to time. A young policewoman was about to fine him, and her partner had got off the car and stopped her, because «That’s Captain friggin’ America, Miller!»

«Yeah, okay, Liu. He’s not above the law, though?» They had both got back on the car nonetheless, only telling him to remember his helmet the next time.)

«Now, you’ll have no more reasons not to abide the law», Maria said with a smile, glancing at her watch again.

«I could work on some improvements, if you want», Tony offered, lighting up. «You know, direct Bluetooth link to your phone, things of the sort…». Steve nodded in acknowledgement.

«Sir, there’s a SHIELD helicopter approaching», Jarvis’s bodiless voice announced.

«About damn time!» Maria exclaimed, standing up. «C’mon, guys, we have to go».

Steve put the helmet back in the box, together with the card, and smiled widely again, thanking them all for the present and the last-minute feast. He grabbed the shield while Clint adjusted his bow, and the two of them followed Natasha and Maria out of the room, hurrying towards the rooftop.

* * *

Natasha assessed the situation from the booth she was sitting in. The bar they had picked to celebrate the end of the mission was probably messier than any other place they had ever chosen – and that was saying something –, but it gave off a welcoming vibe. There were enough people for them to draw relatively no attention, yet for the situation to be manageable in case all went south. A group of what looked like frat dudes were hanging around the pool table; random drinkers and young couples were chatting at the counter; and two women were playing darts in the far left corner. (Natasha thought Clint had all the places with a dartboard covered, but he’d never mentioned that particular bar – the darts must have been new. She needed to remember to tell him next time she went to the farm.)

She was sitting with her back against the wall, nursing a bottle of beer she didn’t want to drink in just one gulp. It was probably going to be a long night, and not everyone used to control oneself after missions gone well: Natasha felt like she needed to keep her mind sharp and her body ready, even in an apparently harmless occasion.

Besides, she didn’t seem to be the only one thinking that way. Maria Hill was sitting in the same booth as she was, and Natasha could see her lips pursing at the sight of some random colleagues of theirs being particularly noisy. But even if the two women weren’t as relaxed as the other agents, Natasha knew that they both were damn well proud of the mission’s outcome.

Natasha would have bet Steve was proud of their job, too. He just had another way entirely of showing it. He had ingested a considerable amount of alcohol by then, but since he was a super-soldier it looked like he had drunk water. He wasn’t neither silently judging the other agents’ feistiness, nor actively participating in the celebration. His face was lit up by a half-smile and his body was a little more relaxed than usual, though Natasha was sure he still was ready to reach for the shield by his feet.

Steve’s eyes were the only part of him that looked out of place. They were focused, yes, just not on that occasion or those people. She shot him a sideways glance, smiling a little, and he replied raising the beer bottle towards her, his own smile warming but his eyes still sad. Steve was relieved and miserable at the same time – mixed feelings that Natasha knew very well.

She decided that fuck it, she was going to ask him how he felt. Not exactly her thing, but had she been in that same situation, she would have liked Steve to talk to her. (And again, thinking as such left her speechless for a moment – only Barton had ever been deemed worthy of her trust like that.) Natasha turned a bit on her seat, to at least face Steve properly. She began to voice her question, but was interrupted by yet another outburst of joyfulness by their colleagues. Maria huffed quite loudly at that. Natasha gulped some of her beer and looked Steve in the eyes.

«Steve. How-- how are you feeling?» She tried to convey with her eyes and tone that she wasn’t referring to his post-mission state, at least not _just_ to it. When he blinked rapidly, his grip on the bottle tightening, she feared she’d dared too much. With the corner of her eye, she saw Hill’s head turn infinitesimally, meaning she was listening as well.

«I’m… content», Steve answered, before taking a long sip from his beer. «The mission was a success, wasn’t it?» His eyes focused on her, though it looked like Steve had to drag his brain away from whatever it was he was thinking about. Natasha tilted her head and furrowed her brows just a bit, and she was sure he knew she didn’t believe him.

«This bar», he continued, looking at the chatty people at the counter, «reminds me of another one». His shoulder tensed slightly. Natasha thought she knew were the conversation was headed, and didn’t feel like that was the right moment for it. She shot him a half-smile instead, and mimicked his stance.

A few minutes had passed, when all the agents decided it was their turn to play pool, at the same time. The only problem was that there weren’t nearly enough cues, and the whole thing was heating up alarmingly. Maria widened her eyes and started swearing under her breath, but stopped when a small group of agents desisted and came near their booth instead. A tipsy Rumlow dropped himself on the chair beside Steve, eyeing the three of them and raising his bottle of beer towards Natasha, before gulping it all. He abruptly turned his head and looked at Steve narrowing his eyes, and asked: «Rogers, talk to me. We bought you a hella rad helmet, like, last year, right?» Steve’s jaw clenched slightly, but he nodded nonetheless. «Then why’d I see you riding without it lately? Did it break?» Rumlow put his chin on his hand, his elbow on the table. He eyed Steve, waiting eagerly for an answer.

A rather drunk Sitwell clasped Rumlow on the shoulder and pointed his bottle of beer towards Steve. «What does it even matter?» he asked, laughing and leaning on the table a bit. «He’s Captain fucking America! I mean, even if he fell, it’s not like he would crack his skull and die, amiright?» He laughed again and took another sip of his beer. Rumlow turned around and grabbed his arm, more pissed by Sitwell’s drunkenness than by his words. Maria’s head jerked to her right, her back stiff and her eyes stern, and she scolded him: «Don’t.» Natasha was glaring at Sitwell as well.

«Sure I would». Steve’s tone was flat, but his words still managed to attract Natasha’s and Maria’s attention like a magnet. Sitwell and Rumlow looked like they hadn’t heard, their focus yet again on the pool table.

Natasha put his hand on Steve’s arm, squeezing it lightly, and shot him a questioning and worried glance. He looked at her, then shrugged and drank some of his beer. His eyes drifted apart again, settling for a moment on the counter before glazing over, that sad expression yet again visible behind the surface. Natasha exhaled and furrowed her brows, then turned to meet Maria’s eyes. She looked as worried as she did.

* * *

Sharon opened the door, smiling. Steve’s hair was all sticking up on his head, his cheeks vaguely flushed. «Hey! Gone for a ride again? Windy, uh?» she asked, half-mocking, but her smile started fading as soon as she noticed his furrowed brows and his hunched shoulders. He was looking at her, but wasn’t _seeing_ her. She moved from the door to let him in, and he went to sit on the couch.

Sharon sat next to him and turned to face him. Her right knee was almost touching his thigh, and she could see Steve was distressed, even if her eyes could only scan one side of his face. She would have liked to soothe him, to comfort him. Hug him, maybe, and hold him tight. She resorted to talking instead, without even knowing what to say, fully conscious it would have been better for both of them if she had _done_ something.

«Steve…» she said, tentatively. God, you’d expect better from a CIA agent. On the field she was sharp, precise, focused; but if someone she cared about featured into the equation, all she seemed able to do was worrying and babbling. In the meantime, it looked like Steve had sunk even deeper into the couch. «Steve», she breathed deeply, «you can come here anytime you want, you know that. And I’m sorry for what I said before. You know what I think about that. We’re not discussing again».

Hell, no. They were definitely _not_ going to bring it up again – road safety and whatnot. That is, unless Steve wanted to talk about it. But she didn’t want to spend another evening like the one few weeks before. Crying because they were arguing (she hated being an angry crier, that’s for sure). Crying because Steve had suddenly shouted at her the reason why he would drive helmet-less, and she had felt so stupid, and so sad. Crying even long after he had gone, because she had realized that, despite everything, he had deemed her worthy of such a part of himself, and still had not regretted sharing it – or at least she hoped.

«We both know that I’m not at my best with words, Steve. I-- I just want to let you know that I care. Deeply. Messily. Maybe too much, but I can’t help it». Sharon bumped his thigh with her knee, a tentative smile on her lips.

After a few seconds, Steve closed his eyes and nodded, then turned his head slightly towards her. «You can’t “care too much”». He smiled a little.

Sharon’s own smile broadened. «You know, I really like it when your hair’s like this». She put her hand on the back of his head and planted a kiss on his cheek.

* * *

Even if Sam had provided him with his own apartment keys, Steve still used to knock and wait for him to open the door. That is, unless it was a “Tuesday at Sam’s” dedicated to cooking and Sam was already in the kitchen, in which case he would yell something along the line of «Steve, you idiot! Open that damn door yourself and come here help me!» Whichever the chosen activity was, though, every Tuesday night inevitably lead to thick, brown folders to read and maps opened on the table and missions to plan.

That evening they’d decided to watch a movie together, so Sam felt obliged to welcome his friend after he had rung the bell, not sparing him a very dramatic eye-roll, though. That usually led to sneer remarks and lively quips as the two men tried to outwit each other – generally managing to resemble 5-year-olds. (Sam always thanked the Universe that those evenings were just for the two of them: having Natasha or Maria laugh at them or throw some serious shade would have been too much to bare.) That particular Tuesday, though, Steve hadn’t promptly replied to Sam’s sass; something the latter had attributed to the stupidly hot weather, even for a late June evening. And, after all, one couldn’t always be in his better mood, could he?

Sam was sprawled on the couch, his back sweating even if all the house windows were open. No breeze was there to be enjoyed, but he felt too lazy to even consider the idea of setting up the electric fan. His hopes of refreshment relied on an iced beer and a good movie ( _Super8_ , which he liked both for the plot and for the soundtrack – it was no _Trouble Man_ , but it featured some great music indeed.)

It was probably the third or fourth time Sam watched the movie, so he wasn’t really paying attention to what was happening on the screen, focusing on Steve instead. He obviously had to stealthily observe him from the corner of his eye, but his ears only would have sufficed to spot his unusual behavior. The fact was, Steve usually was the most obnoxious of movie-mates: he talked while watching anything, providing his own sarcastic audio commentary (something that Sam both enjoyed and hated, but Steve couldn’t seem able to stop). That made Steve’s silence even stranger, and the fact that he hadn’t sprawled on the couch as usual nor drunk more than a sip of his beer only added to the mix. Sam was worried. He had delivered some movie-related quips, but all his attempts had only been met with half-hearted chuckles.

Sam mentally cursed himself for choosing _Super8_ : it wasn’t the first time Steve had gotten all somber because the movie had triggered painful memories, and hell, _Super8_ surely was a ticking bomb – bunch of friends with family issues dealing with something big and scary? Fucking perfect choice, Sam Wilson, really –. However, it seemed that Steve’s somberness had another reason than the movie, that time…

The credits started rolling on the screen, then ended. Steve still hadn’t spoken nor moved, with the exception of his furrowed eyebrows. Sam turned slightly on the couch, trying to decipher his friend’s expression.

«What» Steve said abruptly, still looking in front of him.

Sam was caught off-guard, and struggled to voice his answer. «Um, Steve, look. I know that you like obscure arthouse pictures better», he said, teasingly, and Steve huffed. «I’m sorry if the movie wasn’t the right choice. But you must’ve realized you didn’t talk at all the whole evening…» Sam fully turned towards Steve, who only moved his gaze on him, emotions visibly storming in his eyes. «If you got any commentary going through your head, I--»

Steve head jerked, and he slammed his bottle of beer on the coffee table. «What the fuck! Why is everyone so damn concerned about my head lately?» He stood up abruptly, and stomped to the kitchen, leaving Sam alone on the couch, wide-eyed. Holy shit, Steve.

A few seconds passed, and then Sam got to his feet and in the kitchen as well. He leaned against the fridge, looking at Steve, whose hands were gripping the side of the table. His eyes were closed and his breaths deep.

«I’m sorry», Steve whispered, without moving. «It’s just… it’s been a rough week, and I was thinking… about things». Sam tilted his head, even though he knew his friends couldn’t see him. «I’m really sorry I snapped like that, but last time someone made a remark about my head, it ended up in yelling. And tears. Guess I accomplished only half of that – that is, unless you want to cry?» Steve lifted his gaze to Sam, who half-smiled.

«Well, it’s all about me, and my bike. And the fact that I ride it without a helmet». Steve straightened his back, and looked at Sam in the eyes. «A bunch of people have asked me why, and even if you haven’t voiced the question, I can see it in your eyes, Sam. It’s been there for a while, even if you haven’t pushed me to answer».

Well, damn. Sam’s shoulders stiffened slightly – he didn’t think he was so readable, but he guessed Steve knew him well enough. And he was right, too: Sam had been wondering for a while why on earth that idiot put his life at risk like that, at least when he wasn’t in a mission-related haste. He never got around to ask him, but apparently it was obvious that he wanted to smack the bloke on that head of his (before he did it himself, that is.)

Sam nodded, and Steve glanced outside the window before going on. «I’m thankful you haven’t asked, but now I think I need… I want to tell you». Sam’s gaze was fixed on Steve, and he was worried yet moved by his friend’s trust.

«When… When I came back, I discovered you had to put on a helmet to ride a bike. I guess I decided I didn’t care – mind you, I got fined a lot, and yet… the cut was so fresh, and back then helmets weren’t really a thing. I think I wanted at least one thing to make me feel like nothing had changed…» Steve crossed his arms on his chest. His eyes glazed for a few moments, before he blinked and focused again on Sam, who returned his gaze. His brows had furrowed a bit as Steve talked.

«And then, guys at SHIELD and the Avengers bought me a shiny, brand new helmet. And hell, I was touched, even if they were kinda mocking me. And I was also tired of paying fines, so». He shrugged. «And it was great, for a while. Until, well, last winter». Steve stopped talking, and turned his face upwards, breathing deeply.

Sam hadn’t moved yet, but his head was in turmoil and his stomach was twisting uncomfortably. Hell, he should have been prepared to handle those situations, but the truth was, listening to other people’s experiences was still as demanding as day one. Sam knew how hard it was to talk about one’s problems – one’s PTSD –, and he had had his fair amount of shit to come to terms with. And finding the right thing to say was damn hard.

Steve started talking again, still looking at the ceiling. «January afternoon. It was raining. I was on my bike». Every sentence was punctuated by a deep breath, and he looked like he was struggling to let words come out of his throat. «I had my helmet on. And I was rather glad, even. “I won’t get wet”, I’d thought. And I actually wasn’t – my head wasn’t, at least. The rest of me, on the other hand…» Steve clenched his fists. «Hell, I was on the road, and a SUV overtook me. It ran over a puddle and soaked me. Fucking frustrating, normally, yeah. Fact is…» Steve untangled his arms and clutched the rim of the table he was half-sat on, his knuckles whitening. «Fact is, I-- I panicked. My mind flashed back to the plane and the ice and the cold and I couldn’t fucking breath anymore so I had to pull over and take the damn helmet off and calm the fuck down alone and--»

Steve had told the last bit in a rush, words coming out like he was spitting. He was still firmly gripping the table, and his shoulders had stiffened. He closed his eyes, though Sam could see he was on the verge of tears. Shit. The man in front of him was Captain America – how could one Sam Wilson soothe pain dating back decades? Yet the man in front of him was also Steve, his friend. And he was looking at Sam with tired and sad eyes, his expression tinted with shame. ( _No_ , Steve.)

Sam looked at him in the eyes, silence lingering in the kitchen. He closed the distance between Steve and himself with two steps, and engulfed his friend in a hug. He felt Steve stiffen, and tightened his embrace. Then a shaking Steve reciprocated his hug.

* * *

The dark colours of the night were still lingering in the sky, yet Steve was already awake. The heat had forced him to leave the windows open; that also meant that the couch he was laying on had been splashed by light at the crack of dawn. Sam had insisted he stayed the night, thought Steve would have preferred to ride back home. «My coffee is better than the one you buy, anyway», Sam had said, but Steve knew his friend well enough to sense he was worried. And, well, he wasn’t really to blame, now was he? The evening had turned out differently from planned – hell, who was he kidding? Steve had been plain rude, he knew it. Even if he probably had his fair reasons, that was not the way to treat a friend… And yet. Once again, Sam had been there. He had understood his anger, he had listened to him, and hugged him, and consoled him (and forced him to sleep on his couch). Not that Steve had dozed off easily; his mind had wandered for hours before it had surrendered to his body’s weariness.

It still surprised Steve how many people were willing to be by his side. It was not camaraderie that amazed him – that was relatively simple to achieve, with them fighting together –, but the emotional bonds that had seemed to build around him since he had wakened up. At first, Steve had been sure he was destined to quite an isolated life: how could he hope to find someone who shared his experiences? How could anyone manage to put up with someone so out of time? And yet, he had had to change his mind. Even if friends from the Forties were hard to find or painful to talk with, Steve had discovered that other people shared a burden similar to his own. Difficult childhoods, long lost partners, the feeling of being out of place, crushed certainties, aftermaths of battles that could never really be forgotten – the specifics were not the same, but the weight on their chests held no differences whatsoever. And that was what made their bond, their _friendship_ , so much more incredible in Steve’s eyes: no matter what, they were all there for one another. Even if they were damaged. Even if it meant putting up with the others’ shit.

Shit like that damned helmet thing. Steve was so grateful for everyone who cared for him, even if he had reacted badly every time they had voiced their worries. And fucking hell, that loud frustration didn’t absolutely mirror the feelings in his heart: truth was, he was afraid. Afraid that he would hold people too close, only to lose them and suffer again, and again, and again. Steve _knew_ that his friends loved him (still, what an achievement had it been, accepting that it was worth to love and be loved, even now, even if everything had changed). He knew that everyone had his own way to show it, and yet, his reactions struggled to display how touched he felt, how mutual the affection was. He had yelled at Sharon, instead of thanking her for her visible interest in his well-being, and still thought about what a jerk he had been. He had felt confused at Natasha cracking a joke about his breaking the law, wondering if she was making fun of him or trying to offend him, instead of realizing that sarcasm was a protection on its own. He had been surprised by Sam’s hug, struggling to understand why he would soothe him instead of delivering a sensible lecture.

The light pouring in through the windows was getting brighter, and the air heavier with the summer heat. Steve got off the couch, thoughts whirling in his head not much more differently than they had before he had fallen asleep. Sam was still in his room (he could hear his heavy breathing), but the coffee pot was hot and giving off a rich smell. Ah Sam, you light-footed bird. And yes, your coffee is definitely better. Steve scribbled “thanks” on a paper towel he left near the pot; and, even if he had already told him, he mentally apologized again for having ruined their Tuesday evening – not that Sam had minded, of course. He was that good, really.

Steve put on his sneakers and headed outside, where he had parked his newly bought motorcycle the night before. He was already thinking about where he had to go: he owed some people a hug. He had just got on his bike, when a glimpse of blue on the handlebars caught his eye; he looked more attentively, and his face split in a smile so big, he had to close his eyes to avoid crying again. He got on the road, morning breeze on his face, happiness dancing in his eyes. Aw, man. _Thank you._  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic took me SO LONG to write, and I’m quite proud of the result. I really hope I haven’t butchered the characters – otherwise, let me know.  
> Thanks for reading!


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